


gratitude

by lethargicProfessor



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred appreciation, Gen, grandpa alfred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargicProfessor/pseuds/lethargicProfessor
Summary: It's nice to feel appreciated. At least, Alfred thinks so.





	gratitude

Alfred Pennyworth has seen plenty of things in his life, but none have been as puzzling as the ten year old boy attempting to place a cup of tea at his side with a broken arm in a cast and crutch tucked under the other. He struggles to keep the cup steady with his broken hand, his other gripping his crutch painfully tight.

“Would you like assistance, Master Damian?” Alfred asks, methodically cleaning surgical implements. It isn’t so different than cleaning silverware, he supposes, though he would be loath to imagine his silverware covered in blood again.

“I can do it,” Damian grunts, and it’s testament to his pain that he doesn’t snap something acerbic afterwards. He manages to set the cup on the counter beside Alfred’s elbow without spilling most of the contents, and turns on his heel before shambling away. His crutch taps softly in the cave before fading away.

“Thank you, Master Damian,” Alfred calls after him, and receives a soft click of his tongue in response.

(The tea is lukewarm and weak, not nearly steeped enough, but Alfred drinks it as he works regardless.)

* * *

It takes some getting used to, playing the ‘Find Timothy’ game. The children play it most often, but Alfred has been roped into it more times than he cares to think about.

“Master Timothy,” he murmurs, staring at the young man curled up in the lowest shelf in his pantry. It’s astonishing, how such a broad frame can fit into such a small space, but if Richard is to be believed, Timothy has fallen asleep in an air duct before.

Timothy does not stir, but his breathing is soft and even, which is enough for Alfred. He pulls the flour from the pantry and shuts it gently to avoid disturbing him.

Richard peeks into the kitchen to ask for Timothy’s whereabouts, but Alfred is halfway through dinner, and one look is enough to send him scurrying away with a call to the others to avoid disturbing him.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Timothy murmurs, poking his head out from the pantry. His hair is a mess, cowlicks flying every which way, and he squints blearily at Alfred in the bright kitchen light.

“It was no trouble at all, Master Timothy,” Alfred says, and mentions nothing to the other when he pulls his sleeves up to help make dinner.

* * *

Cassandra stares sullenly at Alfred, pouting around the thermometer in her mouth. He is aware, yes, that young Cassandra is fully capable of dealing with something as trifle as a cold, but he remains stern as he fusses over her.

“Have we learned our lesson about swimming in the harbor?” He asks, mostly to tease, and Cassandra delivers a truly astounding eye roll in response.

“Penguin’s fault,” she mutters, making a face when Alfred takes the thermometer away. “I didn’t want to.”

“I know.” Alfred smooths her hair away from her forehead, setting a cool towel down instead. “If you need anything, ring the bell. Would you like dinner?”

Cassandra nods, but is already sinking into the pillows with a sigh. Eyes drooping, she raises her hand to her lips, sweeping it towards him in a familiar gesture.  _Thank you_.

Alfred nods, and as he turns away, he catches another sweep of her hand, this time at her forehead, two small arches following.

“Rest well, Cassandra,” he whispers, shutting the door behind him as he steps out, pride burning in his chest for his granddaughter.

* * *

When the grandfather clock in the study reaches noon, Alfred allows himself some time to rest. Since the majority of the household is supposed to be working or in school (or asleep, if he has any say about it), he takes advantage of the lull.

He supposes his routine is too regular, and could pose some problems in the future, but he enjoys the comfort that comes with Jason preparing a kettle for tea. There is a box of scones on the counter from the bakery in Park Row that Alfred is partial to, though there seems to be one missing.

“Sorry I’m late, Alfie,” Jason murmurs from over the range, reaching up to the highest cupboard for the tin of Earl Gray Alfred enjoys. “Had to make a quick stop.”

“I assure you Master Jason, all is forgiven.” Alfred steps in, eyeing the crumbs on Jason’s lip critically as he physically moves the young man away from the kettle. “How are the scones today?”

“Amazing,” Jason grins, and there’s a ghost of the young boy from Crime Alley in the smile. Alfred sighs at the nostalgia of it all, watching Jason pull down a china cup for Alfred and a mug for himself.

“I remember when you were too short to reach the cupboard and had to climb onto the counter,” he muses, preening at Jason’s sharp laugh. “Oh how times have changed.”

“You hate when we climb on the counters,” Jason points out, taking a seat near the window.

“And tell me, has that stopped any of you from trying it?”

They share scones in the warm kitchen, and Jason promises to leave the box intact until he arrives the next time he drops by for tea.

* * *

“Master Richard. Please come down from the chandelier. I would hate to have to replace it again.”

It was a sweet gesture, Richard offering to dust the harder to reach spots in the foyer, but Alfred imagined (hoped, at any rate) that he would use a ladder, or stay to the humanly accessible areas.

“It’s perfectly fine, Alfie!” Richard calls from the chandelier, and Alfred sighs as motes of dust make their way down to the staircase. Richard swings again, one leg hooked around the chandelier for stability, and gives the opening across the hall another swipe with a duster.

“If I leave to pick up Master Damian from school, can you promise me the chandelier and yourself will be in one piece when I return?” Alfred asks, tracking the swinging man with a tired sigh.

“Of course! You know I’m a pro—“

“Professional, yes, yes, I am aware.” Richard winks, giving him a thumbs up as he lets himself drop, flipping in midair to land lightly on the stairs. It would have been a perfect landing, had the chandelier not swung back and hit the wall with a solid  _thunk_.

Alfred and Richard watched the shards of glass tinkle down from the chandelier, the force of it swinging it around for another go.

“You know where the electrician’s number is, Master Richard.” 


End file.
